The Judas Pair

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘And what if you’re caught?’

  She drew me to a bench-seat and we sat. From there we faced the house beyond the water, trailing trees and sweeping grass studded with bushes. It was as charming as any scene on earth and made me draw breath.

  ‘You think it’s lovely,’ she said.

  ‘Wonderful. They had a sense of elegance we’ve lost,’ I said. ‘It all comes down to judgement. They had it. Whatever shape or design or pattern was exactly right, they recognized it. You have to love it, don’t you?’

  ‘I know what you mean, Lovejoy.’ Her tone was cold. ‘I used to feel the same until Eric died.’

  ‘Will you stay here?’

  ‘No, not now.’

  ‘Where will you go, Muriel?’

  ‘Oh.’ She shrugged.

  The heron stabbed, was erect and still before the drops fell from his beak.

  ‘What if you are caught in the box gambit?’ She shook my arm until I relaxed.

  ‘You lie,’ I said. The ripples were extending towards us. ‘Lie like a trooper. You say that you, in all innocence, called at her house. The widow asks you in to see some heirloom because you’d asked particularly about antiques. You say she bargained like an old hand, and anyway you’d given her money for the object, hadn’t you? She won’t deny it.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  I gazed into her eyes. ‘They never do.’

  ‘Have you done it, Lovejoy?’ she asked as the first ripple lapped on the bank below us. I nodded.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said candidly.

  ‘You must.’

  ‘Why must I?’

  ‘Because . . . because, that’s all.’

  ‘Why, Lovejoy?’

  ‘Look, Muriel.’ I rose and tipped earth with my shoe into the water, staring down. It seemed pretty deep. You could see a few pebbles, then a dark brown murkiness. ‘I don’t know much about you, your family, who there is to give you a hand now . . . after your husband. But that mansion over there. These grounds. It’s enough to bring every dealer and scrounger running from miles around.’

  ‘Are you trying to warn me?’

  ‘Just listen.’ I tried to stop myself, but like a fool I talked on. ‘We dealers are pretty slick. Some are all right, but some are not. We’re good and bad, mixed. There are grafters, crooks, conners, lifters, zangers, edgers, pullers, professional dummyers, clippers – every variety of bloke on the make. Some pretty boys, smart, handsome, looking wealthy. Cleverer than any artists, better than any actor. They’ll pick your house clean any way they can and brag about it in the pub afterwards.’

  ‘Are you warning me, Lovejoy?’ Woman-like, she stuck to her question.

  I felt like shaking her. ‘Never mind what I’m doing,’ I cried, exasperated. ‘Just be careful, that’s all. Be suspicious and sharp, and don’t let in everybody who comes knocking.’

  ‘I let you in, Lovejoy,’ she reminded, smiling.

  I pulled her on to the seat. ‘Can’t you see the obvious?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I drew breath and tried to glare into her innocent eyes. ‘You’re too damned trusting, Muriel. You should never have let me in the other day. It’s too risky. Look,’ I said, maddened by her smile. ‘Look. In that house, that great mansion you live in, your husband Eric lost his life.’

  ‘I don’t need reminding.’

  ‘You do.’ I was almost shouting, not knowing why I was so worked up. ‘Has it not dawned on you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who killed him?’

  She paled instantly. I could see the skin over her cheeks tauten. ‘Why . . . why are you asking me?’ she said.

  ‘Because somebody must have,’ I said. ‘Do the police know who? No. Does anyone else know? No. And not only that. Does anyone know why he was killed? Do you? No. The police? No.’

  ‘They . . . they said it must have been an attempted robbery,’ she said faintly.

  ‘So they think,’ I said. ‘But is that reasonable? What was stolen?’

  ‘Why, nothing,’ she faltered.

  ‘Not even one or two of your husband’s antiques?’

  ‘No. At least, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Did the police think so?’

  ‘Practically everything was there, according to Eric’s lists. They weren’t complete, of course. He never did keep very tidy records.’

  ‘Think,’ I urged. ‘Was nothing at all missing?’

  ‘The only thing is that my brother-in-law said a pair of pistols were gone. The ones you asked about. The police did go over the inventory when all Eric’s antiques went to Seddon’s afterwards, though. George had rather an argument with them about it, I recall. He seemed to blame them for not being concerned enough.’

  ‘That doesn’t alter the fact,’ I put in, ‘that you’re in this house, rich and with plenty of valuable stuff about, I guess.’

  She nodded. ‘There’s the –’

  God help me if she wasn’t going to give me a run-down of her valuables. I clamped my hands over my ears.

  ‘Don’t,’ I begged. ‘For heaven’s sake, you’re doing what I told you not to. Keep quiet about your things. Chain everything down. Change the locks. Treble the burglar alarms. Quadruple the dogs.’

  ‘I’ll be all right, Lovejoy,’ she said, smiling. She pulled down my hands and kissed me. ‘I think you’re sweet.’

  ‘How can I be sweet when I’m a hard nut?’ I said angrily, pulling away. ‘You don’t realize how versatile dealers, collectors can be. We’ll do anything – anything – to get what we want. It may only be a couple of old matchboxes, but if we collect matchboxes we’ll do anything to get them.’

  Her face was back in its previous solemn, worried expression.

  ‘But that can’t be true.’

  ‘It is true.’

  ‘It can’t be,’ she said doggedly.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘But, Lovejoy,’ she said, almost pleading, ‘that’s so unreasonable.’

  ‘Of course it’s unreasonable. All collecting’s unreasonable. But it’s real.’ I shrugged and beckoned her to her feet. We strolled on. ‘You’re not really taking notice of me, are you?’

  I could see I had upset her.

  ‘You aren’t telling me all collectors are like that, are you?’ she said, hesitating beside a white-flowered bush set between large rocks.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘All?’

  ‘All,’ I said firmly. ‘That’s what makes a collector special. Unique. Your husband must have been like that too.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ she said, ‘but he was . . .’

  ‘Eccentric?’

  The sardonic note struck. She swung on me. ‘How did you know I used to –’ she blazed, looking momentarily more frightened than angry. I kissed her lightly.

  ‘All wives call their husbands that, Muriel, love,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Beware collectors,’ I warned again.

  She glanced obliquely at me as we walked. ‘And what about you, Lovejoy?’

  I gave her my frankest avaricious leer. ‘I’m the worst dealer there ever was, as far as you’re concerned,’ I said hoarsely.

  ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘The greediest, the cleverest, and the randiest,’ I admitted, thinking, what am I doing? ‘So don’t trust me, especially me.’

  ‘I don’t believe that, either,’ she said. ‘But I’ll do as you say.’

  ‘Right,’ I said with finality, disengaging my arm. ‘That’s it, then. Madam, before I rape you under this elm tree, show me the door.’

  ‘I like you, Lovejoy,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t push your luck, Muriel.’ I watched the heron stab and crook in a swallow again. ‘You’ve only been safe so far.’

  She tried to laugh again but something had gone from the day. We waited for the next ripple to reach the steps then set off back towards the house as the boat slowly began to tug at its mooring.

  Seddon�
��s, I was thinking. They sent his antiques to Seddon’s for auction.

  Chapter 8

  SHEILA SAID DANDY Jack had phoned but left no message, that Margaret had too but said not to bother.

  ‘And a strange gentleman who seemed annoyed,’ she added.

  ‘Pansy?’

  ‘He had that . . . mannerism.’

  ‘Adrian.’

  ‘Will you call, please. And that’s the lot.’ She made coffee better than I did, but only Yanks do it properly in my opinion. I drank it for appearances’ sake. ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Who?’ On guard, Lovejoy.

  Sheila curled on the divan. ‘Whoever it was you’ve been to see.’

  ‘Oh.’ A measure of truth was called for, I thought. Always dangerous stuff to handle. You know where you are with a good old fable, so much more adaptable.

  ‘Pretty?’

  ‘Yes. Her husband died in odd circumstances some time back.’

  ‘Was it a box gambit?’

  ‘Sort of.’ I eyed her unkindly. ‘You’re learning too much for your own good.’

  She blew a kiss. ‘I won’t split.’

  Dated slang, I noticed. Pity there’s no market for it.

  ‘Finish up,’ I told her. ‘We’re going to the arcade, then Adrian’s.’

  Instantly she was all about getting ready. Now, there’s a difference for you. I knew a dealer in Manchester once who said that the only real difference between us and women was that they strike matches in an away direction while men did it in a cupped hand towards themselves. But you can list a million things. Say to a chap, ‘Come on, I’ll give you a lift. It’s time to go,’ and he’ll say, ‘Fine. Thanks,’ but not move for a while. A woman’s immediately all bustle, hardly bothering to listen to the destination. Funny, that.

  We pulled up near the arcade, doing the ‘delivery’ bit. I was proud of Sheila. She looked good enough to eat, as some of our local Romeos perceived. I went straight to Dandy Jack’s. He was tilting a bottle.

  ‘For my chest,’ he explained, grinning. ‘Hello, Lovejoy. Sit down, love.’

  His tiny shop was a ruin as usual. Everything lay under a coating of dust. He had two firescreens which would have been superb except that filth made them look like pieces of cladding, all that splendid granular colouring obscured.

  ‘Why don’t you spruce your place up, Dandy?’ I couldn’t help asking.

  ‘Oh.’ He grinned. ‘Well, I would, but it takes time, doesn’t it?’

  Sheila sat gingerly on a Victorian piano stool, knees together and heels off the ground, with the air of a quack in an epidemic through no fault of his own.

  ‘Bonny girl you got there, Lovejoy,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Dandy Jack and Randy Lovejoy.’ He gave out a cackle and swigged again, wiping the bottle neck on his tattered sleeve.

  ‘And they say wit is dead.’

  ‘No harm intended, love,’ he confided to Sheila, his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘None taken,’ she said bravely without recoiling.

  ‘You phoned,’ I reminded him. ‘But before you tell me why, have you still got those jades?’

  ‘Of course.’ He delved into a pile of open trays and pulled one out. A jade tumbled off. He picked it up, rubbing it on his tatty pullover.

  I snatched them all off him irritably and took them towards the light. It was still there, an unreal lustrous netsuke masquerading among jade and agate. I pulled off the ticket I’d written for it. A netsuke is a little carved figure of ivory, jade or other decorative material. The Japanese made them for embellishing sword handles. We, of course, rip them out and ruin the entire setting.

  ‘I’ve had second thoughts, Dandy.’ I tried not to feel guilty and avoided Sheila’s eye.

  He crowded close, stinking of rum. ‘It’s not duff, is it, Lovejoy?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘No. It’s superb.’ The bitterness in my growl made him cackle with glee.

  ‘You’re too bloody soft for this game,’ he croaked.

  ‘Don’t keep saying that,’ I snapped. I wrote out a new ticket upping the price five hundred per cent. ‘Here. Now,’ I said ferociously, ‘move them, Dandy. Move them! They should be treated with velvet gloves, not rattled around this cesspit of yours, and sold fast.’

  He cackled again and offered me a swig, which I declined. He glanced towards Sheila as a caution but I nodded.

  ‘Well,’ he said, reassured. ‘Some geezer phones me early. He’d heard I was putting the whisper out for flinters and rings to ask what sort. Wouldn’t leave a name.’

  ‘That’s useless, Dandy.’

  ‘Wait – he asks after a Mr Lovejoy, did I know if he’d anything for sale in that line.’

  ‘Eh? Are you serious?’

  ‘Straight up.’

  There was nothing more. Now, this smacked of some amateur sleuthing on somebody’s part. No dealer would tackle A about B’s intentions so directly. I cast about for Margaret on the way out of the arcade but didn’t see her. Her small den across the shopping arcade was unlit and carried its closed sign. I don’t know what I’d done wrong.

  We pushed down the High Street among buses and cars towards Adrian’s. It’s a cut above the arcade. He has a spruce display, tickets on everything. Today’s offerings included a series of Adam style chairs, good copies, a lush mahogany Pembroke table by Gillows – a great name – of Lancaster about 1820, and a run of Byzantine ikons on the walls among English watercolours. Incidentally, remember that the watercolour game is a characteristically English art. Continental light is too brilliant. It’s the curious shifting lights in our countryside that imparted a spontaneity and skill to the art that made it a feature of this land as opposed to others. Praise where it’s due. Adrian had a Rowbotham (moderate value, great skill), a Samuel Palmer (much value, brilliant skill) and a minute Turner that must have taken less than a minute to do. I touched the frame just to say I’d done so, not kneeling; and recoiled stunned by bells. Huge value plus the skill of genius.

  ‘Now, dear boy,’ Adrian was saying when I could concentrate. ‘You’re not going to tell me it’s phoney. Don’t you dare.’

  ‘It’s perfect, Adrian.’

  ‘Isn’t he sweet?’ he cooed at Sheila. She concurred, while I looked daggers.

  ‘You wouldn’t by any chance have popped into one of the local auctions, Adrian?’

  I waited, but he stayed cool.

  ‘All the time, sweetie.’

  ‘Seddon’s.’

  Still not a flicker.

  ‘Fortnightly.’ He smiled. ‘To remind myself how low one can sink, dear boy. They have rubbish and rubbishy rubbish, just those two sorts.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have bought some gadgets about maybe a year ago? A collection of card cases, early nineteenth-century . . .?’ My lies flowed with their usual serenity.

  ‘No luck, love.’ He sat and thought. ‘Not heard of them either.’

  ‘Started out from a box job, so word is.’

  ‘Not even a whisper.’ He was sympathetic. ‘Ask Jane Felsham. It’s more in her line. Got a buyer for them?’

  I gave a rueful shrug. ‘I would have if I could find them.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Ten – some mother of pearl, black lacquer, engraved silver, one silver filigree and a couple chatelained.’

  He whistled. ‘I can understand your concern. Shall I ask about?’

  ‘If you would, Adrian. Many thanks.’

  He cooed a farewell waving a spotted cravat from his doorway as we went back to the car. I’d got a ticket from a cheerful traffic warden and grumbled at Sheila for not having reminded me about putting up my infallible ‘delivering’ notice.

  Seddon’s is one of those barn-like ground-floor places full of old furniture, mangles, mattresses, rotting wardrobes and chairs. The public come to see these priceless articles auctioned. Dealers and collectors come to buy the odd Staffordshire piece, an occasional Bingham pot or set of old soldier’s meda
ls. The trouble is, the trade’s nonseasonal at this level. To spot the public’s deliberate mistake, as it were, you must go every week and never let up. Sooner or later, there it’ll be – a small precious item going for a song. It’s not easy. To see how difficult it is, go to the auction near where you live. Go several times and you’ll see what dross is offered for sale and gets bought! Now, in your half-dozen visits by the law of averages you could have bought for a few coppers at least one item worth a hundred times its auctioned price. The people who actually did buy it weren’t simply lucky. They study, read, record, assemble information and a store of knowledge. It’s that which pays off eventually. That, and flair – if you have any.

  I stress ‘nonseasonal’ because almost all of the antique business at the posher end is seasonal. It’s too complex and full of idiosyncrasies to give it my full rip here, but in case you ever want to buy or sell anything even vaguely resembling an antique, follow Lovejoy’s Law: All things being adjusted equally, sell in October or November to get the best auction price; buy between May and early September for the lowest prices.

  It was viewing day, when you go round the day before the auction and moan at how terrible the junk is, and how there’s cheaper and better stuff in the local market. That way, innocents hear your despair and go away never to return. Result: one less potential buyer. Also, it provides the auctioneer’s assistants with an opportunity for lifting choice items out of the sale and flogging them in secret for a private undisclosed fee. We call it ‘melting down’, and deplore it – unless we can get our hands on the stuff, in which case we keep quiet.

  I took Sheila in and we milled around with a dozen housewives on the prowl and a handful of barkers. Tinker was there and came over.

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Yes, Lovejoy. Hello, miss.’

  Sheila said hello. We left her leafing through a shelf of drossy books and went among the furniture where nobody could listen in.

  ‘I’ve got a cracker, Lovejoy,’ Tinker said. ‘You won’t believe this, honest.’

  ‘You’re having quite a run,’ I commented.

  He got the barb and shook it off.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, ‘but it’s a whizzer. Listen. You’re after a mint pair for that Field I put on to you – right?’ I nodded. ‘I’ve found a cased set going.’